


Devour You

by beef_wonder3



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-10
Updated: 2013-03-10
Packaged: 2017-12-04 22:21:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/715744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beef_wonder3/pseuds/beef_wonder3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is haunted the most in the dead of night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Devour You

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Fairytales

The door was quiet when it opened and closed, the snick of the lock the first sound of Sherlock’s entrance. The room was tiny, drab and grey under the dull light on the ceiling, barely big enough for one. But the motel was cheap and situated in a less than stellar neighborhood, people knew better than to ask questions. 

Sherlock stripped off his shirt, deference to the heat that had been gathering in the room all day; he tossed the splash of red uncaringly across the room’s only chair. Exhaustion feeling bone deep; awake 63 hours, the last leg of this chase, resulting in 6 arrests, which meant he was 6 steps closer to home.

This particular cell Moriarty had set up had been clever, expectedly so. However, not as clever as Sherlock, to their chagrin and now the Parisian Police had one less group of gun runners washing money through blood. Shoes, socks and trousers were carelessly discarded as well, Sherlock leaving them to flick the bedcovers up and sprawl between the relatively cool sheets.

 

It's well past the witching hour when he oozes into the dark room. The cheap digital clock casts a soft glow, quietly informing its audience of the wee hour of limbo; so long after dark and so long before the new sun.

His tread is as soundless as air as he takes the room in. Fingers slide decadently over the discarded shirt, a bloody stream through his palm. The shirt is discarded again, as he turns to Sherlock’s sleeping form. A smile, almost coy quickly chased by a violent smirk crosses over his face. He approaches the bed, silent as a grave.

Careful, careful and ever so gently he kneels onto the bed, leaning, looming over Sherlock. He lifts a hand, slipping it into the luscious nest of inky curls.

"’My, my, my’," Jim whispers into Sherlock’s ear, body braced above Sherlock’s back, "said the wolf, ‘how good it is to see you again Red.’"

Sherlock was paralysed where he lay on his stomach, his cheek nestled into the pile of pillows. There was no twitch, no shift he could do. Complete frozen mercy as Moriarty lowered himself to press against Sherlock.

"I've always liked that one." His captor continued to whisper, the hand in his hair idly twirling curls as Moriarty's other hand swept down Sherlock’s bare side. "The Big Bad Wolf", he continued "preying on little Red Riding Hood. Gorgeous, resourceful Little Red."

The hot breath on his ear made Sherlock want to shudder, to cringe and push the source away but he was trapped, forced to endure.

"What big teeth you have!" Moriarty said, pitching his voice high, feminine and childlike before lowering it several octaves "All the better to bite you with my dear."

Sherlock was a genius, but he didn't need to be to see where Moriarty was headed, not with the way Sherlock’s heart panicked its pace, tension and adrenaline thrumming through his immobile limbs. Sherlock was not proven wrong when he felt it. The wet tip of Moriarty's tongue traced the outer shell of Sherlock’s ear, and down, down the side of his long throat, Moriarty moving leisurely until he reached the junction of neck and shoulder, where Moriarty violently sank his teeth into the flesh, causing Sherlock to jerk brutally.

 

Crashing back to reality, Sherlock’s right arm flailed out, striking the hard headboard. His chest heaved; the sound loud in the empty room. The whump-whump-whump of the ceiling fan made the sweat that drenched Sherlock’s skin prickle uncomfortably.

He sat up, movements sluggish and hindered by the tangled sheet snaked around his legs. Sherlock wobbled out of bed and over to the window. He shoved the heavy window up, leaning his flushed face against the glass as the Parisian summer night swept into the tiny motel room. Sherlock counted off his to do list;

Only 45 left;   
A drug ring in Russia; 10 key pawns  
A human trafficking operation, a hierarchy of 25  
4 politicians in the pocket   
A three person hit team   
And a duo of thieves

Leaving the last, the very last;   
Moriarty's right had man.

45 steps and Sherlock could go home.

45 steps and Sherlock could sleep.


End file.
